Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The

That Virtue Only Makes Our Bliss Below, And All Our Knowledge Is Ourselves To Know.

And Soften'd Sounds Along The Waters Die: Smooth Flow The Waves, The Zephyrs Gently Play.

Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors Call.

Who Know But He, Whose Hand The Lightning Forms, Who Heaves Old Ocean, And Who Wings The Storms, Pours Fierce Ambition In A Caesar's Mind.

Lo! The Poor Indian, Whose Untutored Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind.